


Blow Thy Horn Hunter

by fishliners



Category: Homestuck
Genre: Alternate Universe - No Sburb Session, Anal Sex, Attempted Murder, Bulges and Nooks (Homestuck), Cannibalism, Dubious Consent, Hunting, M/M, Murder, Oral Sex, Stockholm Syndrome, The Most Dangerous Game AU
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-08-06
Updated: 2020-08-06
Packaged: 2021-03-05 22:28:04
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,587
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25742830
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fishliners/pseuds/fishliners
Summary: Dave Strider washes ashore on Achernar Island following a shipwreck on his expedition to a big game hunt. He's taken into the care of a fellow hunter and seadweller by the name of Eridan Ampora. Dave is nursed back to proper health, but Eridan Ampora has an ulterior motive at hand.To hunt.
Relationships: Eridan Ampora/Dave Strider
Comments: 3
Kudos: 14





	Blow Thy Horn Hunter

**Author's Note:**

  * For [LPSunnyBunny](https://archiveofourown.org/users/LPSunnyBunny/gifts).



Dave remembers a crack of thunder and a flash of lightning overhead. He remembers the massive, bone-rattling shake of the deck beneath his feet. He remembers the weightlessness as he’s falling, thrown from his capsized ship, overturned in the crashing waves of the tempestuous storm. The last thing he remembers is being engulfed, being swallowed by the storm as he loses consciousness.

Hearing is the first sense that comes back to him, but he’s still unable to fully process the sounds he hears. There’s a voice, yet the words are unintelligible to Dave’s semi-conscious brain. The voice...footsteps...the sound of a bottle popping open…

Dave manages to blink his eyes open, trying to sharpen the visual blur as everything runs together. As he flutters his eyes open and attempts to focus his ears, the numbness across his body begins to fade away. The pain nearly overwhelms him, but he manages to grit his teeth as his sense of touch comes back to him. There’s rope. Against his wrists. Against his ankles. He can feel support underneath his ass. He’s sitting in a chair, tied to it. His vision begins to clear.

He’s sitting at a table, an elegant hardwood dining table. There’s someone sitting across from him at the other end. A troll. A _seadweller_ , at that. Dave manages to glance down, seeing a set of silverware—big fork, small fork, knife, spoon—and an empty wine glass sitting before him. Looking back up, he can see a nearly identical table setting across from him, but the seadweller’s glass is filled with wine.

“—ally up? I hope you’re waking up for good this time,” the seadweller says. His accent flows over the _w_ in _waking_ , as if it’s cascading downstream before crashing on the stiltedness of the _ing_.

Dave can make out some more distinct features now as he focuses on the seadweller. There’s a streak of violet in his hair, a pair of spectacles balanced upon his face. His features portray an age around Dave’s own, but Dave can’t be certain. After all, creatures of this particular subspecies age at quite a different rate than humans and the lowerblooded trolls.

“I take it you’re wondering what's going on, aren’t you? How you wound up here on my island, hm?”

Dave’s tongue is heavy and numb in his mouth, but he’s determined to figure out what’s happening.

 _What do you want with me?_ , he slowly thinks out, his brain beginning to direct the muscles of his mouth and tongue.

“Whatdyawanwime?” is what comes out.

“Pardon?” the seadweller asks.

“What...do you want...with...me?” Dave manages to ask, trudging through his words like he’s caught in mud. 

“Ah, yes, I suppose it does look awfully messy, doesn’t it? You bound to a chair, held against your will, barely in control of your senses in the home of one rather intimidating specimen?”

The voice is clearer now, his accent foreign. The closest approximation Dave can make is something similar to that of the posh Englishmen he’s encountered during his hunting expeditions, but this voice is even more restrained, with a waviness to it.

“I rescued you,” the seadweller says, snapping Dave out of his impromptu linguistic analysis.

“Why?”

The question earns a surprised scoff from the seadweller, who tops off his own glass with more wine.

“Why did I save a man who could have died? You know, you humans really are such distrustful, ungrateful creatures,” he says, standing up from his spot at the table.

The seadweller walks along the table to Dave’s seat, wine bottle in hand, before standing beside Dave. The bottle of wine is set on the table, and the seadweller begins rummaging through his pockets. Dave doesn’t turn his head, but he glances at the seadweller in his peripheral vision, watching as he produces a knife.

This was it. This was the end. He’s going to be the nightly entertainment for some monstrous, murderous—

The seadweller cuts through the coarse rope binding Dave’s wrists to the chair, letting the rope fall aside. He pockets the knife and begins to pour wine into Dave’s glass.

“The leg restraints have to stay on for now, can’t have you running away. You need to recover from that dreadful wreck you found yourself in, Dave.”

“How do you—”

“Checked your wallet for identification. Borderline miracle the thing was still in your pockets when you washed ashore,” the seadweller replied, corking the wine bottle. “And so we’re on equal footing here, the name’s Eridan Ampora.”

Eridan walks away from Dave, returning to his seat at the other end of the table. He opens his mouth to say something, but before he can speak, a loud ringing sounds from another room.

“That’d be dinner. I’d appreciate it if you don’t try to untie your legs. The knots are rather thorough, and I’d wager you’re still too out of it to either escape or fight me right now.”

With that, Eridan leaves the room. Dave immediately reaches down to the ropes around his ankles, his fingers slowly grasping at the rope, at the knots. He fiddles with them, but is unable to find any progress, his fingers too slow and the knots as secure as Eridan had warned. Dave gives up with a soft sigh, returning his hands to the armrests of his chair.

The door to the dining room opens once more, and Eridan pushes a cart into the room. He sets a steel plate adorned with a cloche before Dave, before wheeling the cart over to his end of the table. Another steel plate with another cloche is set at Eridan’s seat, and he settles himself down across from Dave.

“Go ahead. _Bon appétit_ ,” Eridan says, removing the cloche from his own platter.

Dave slowly lifts up the dome, setting it aside. There’s some sliced meat, glazed with some sort of sauce or gravy or something. It’s surrounded by diced apples, carrots, and potatoes. Dave’s sense of smell was already trickling back, but this practically overwhelms him, his mouth beginning to salivate at the sight and smell of the plate before him.

“Brown sugar pork loin, with a dijon glaze. Served with some fruits and vegetables. The dijon is primarily for taste, but the brown sugar,” Eridan pauses, taking a bite of his food. “The brown sugar provides an amazing texture. A crisp, delightful crust on the outside of the pork.”

Dave picks up the larger fork and knife, cutting into the pork. He places it into his mouth, and it’s as though all of his worries about this situation fade away. There’s a tremendous mix of flavors—saltiness from the pork, sweetness from the brown sugar crust, and savoriness from the dijon glaze. He washes it down with wine, but something doesn’t sit right with him.

It hits him like a truck, his mouth suddenly feeling dry.

“Water…”

Eridan dabs at his lips with a napkin, nodding slightly.

“Yes, yes, you probably do need some more important fluids than red wine, my apologies. One moment,” Eridan says, leaving the dining room once more.

The door opens, and Eridan is back with two glasses in one hand and a pitcher of ice water in the other. He sets one glass at his end of the table, filling it up with the water, before walking over to Dave. Eridan fills Dave’s glass up with water and leaves him the pitcher, returning to his seat and resuming dinner. Dave takes a sip of the water, feels the coldness overtake his mouth, his tongue, his throat, and he tips his head back to finish the glass in one go. He refills his glass and repeats the process.

“Mighty thirsty, aren’t we?” Eridan asks.

Dave wipes at his lips, nodding slightly.

“How...the ice, the lights, how...?” Dave asks.

“One part power generator, one part solar panels. Enough to keep this island going. Did the entire set up myself. Just me here,” Eridan explains in between bites of his food. “Few stragglers sometimes wash up, run ashore. Help ‘em until they’re back on their feet.”

“Fuck, I...I could’ve died back there. Fuck. Uh, thanks. For saving me, and for this,” Dave motions down at his plate, mouth full of pork. “I can pay for—”

“Nope, no payment will be accepted, Dave. Just let me get you back on your feet, and that will be payment enough.”

It would sound almost too good to be true, the words coming from Eridan’s mouth. But the water, the wine, the food, the kindness of Eridan’s actions seemed to solidify that it was true. Dave sets his concerns aside, acknowledges Eridan’s insistence with a slight nod, and resumes his dining.

The capsizing had apparently left Dave famished, as he cleans off his plate with ease. Eridan brings over another plate, setting a slice of chocolate fudge cake before Dave. He refills Dave’s wine glass and tops off the water with the pitcher, before returning to his end of the table.

“Now, take this as a rarity. I like to make sure any rescues are eating healthy, but we can cheat every now and again, can’t we? Besides, you do seem to have an awfully good physique already,” Eridan replies, serving himself a slice of cake as well.

“Thanks,” Dave begins, swallowing down a mouthful of rich, moist cake. “I’m a hunter, actually. Big game and stuff, gotta be in shape.”

“I assumed as much, actually. Most of those who wash ashore are heading on some hunting expedition or other. I’m a hunter myself, believe it or not.”

Dave believes it. With every word, he gets another glance at Eridan’s sharp teeth. Ordinary trolls naturally have more strength, stamina, and endurance than humans, with seadwellers being even more gifted than the average land-walking troll.

“What do you hunt?” Dave asks.

“Typically in it for the thrill, so big cats are always a delight, though I wouldn’t turn down a particularly appealing pachyderm either. I also have a proclivity to hunt more...exotic species.”

“Do you mean...?”

“Lusii, yes,” Eridan responds, a small smirk tugging at the corners of his lips. It’s the first hint of a smile Dave’s seen from the seadweller, and there’s a glint in his eyes too. 

“Their nature is so much more unpredictable than regular animals,” Eridan continues. “More dangerous as well, given their enhanced skills and strength. And that is to say nothing of their rarity.”

Dave gives a simple nod, continuing to eat his dessert. He’s never seen a lusus in the wild, much less actively hunted one. He figured the stories about lusus hunters were all lies, and there’s still the potential this one is too.

“I’m calling bullshit,” Dave says, half-serious, half-messing with Eridan.

“Well, I could certainly show you around some of my finer trophies. Perhaps dig around in the freezer to see if I’ve got any lusus meat stored for a meal.”

Dave can’t tell if Eridan is serious or joking, but he decides to press forward.

“What, gonna paint some cow beef blue and call it dragon lusus meat or something?” Dave scoffs. 

Eridan chuckles, but it’s stilted. Forced. He shakes his head, taking another bite of his cake.

“I suppose you’ll have to see it—hell, _taste_ it to believe it.”

Eridan finishes his cake, placing the dessert plate atop the plate he had used for dinner. He places the cloche back on the plate, before setting it on the cart beside him. Dave finishes his own slice, and Eridan walks over to repeat the same cleanup process with Dave’s silverware. Eridan leaves the room once more, pushing the cart with the plates and glasses stowed away. Dave can hear running water in another room, and he figures Eridan is washing the dishes.

“Could’ve at least untied me and taken me too,” Dave mutters to himself.

Instead, Dave is left patiently waiting for Eridan to return, which happens after...five minutes? There isn’t a clock in the room, so Dave is left to his own senses to estimate the passage of time.

“Right,” Eridan says upon reentry, walking over to Dave’s seat. “I’ll show you around the place, then get you settled in for the night.”

Eridan kneels down, and Dave can see the glint of his knife once more. The ropes around his ankles are cut, and Dave stands up from the chair.

His legs are weak, knees slightly wobbly as he stands to his feet. Instinctually, he reaches a hand out to grasp at Eridan, and he catches the seadweller’s shoulder. Eridan plants a hand on Dave’s back, helping to hold him up. 

“Thanks,” Dave mutters, letting go of Eridan’s shoulder. Eridan lets go of Dave’s back, and Dave manages to step back on his own. His legs aren’t entirely jelly, good to know. “So, where to first?”

“Just follow me,” Eridan instructs, leading Dave out of the room.

Eridan leads them into a trophy room, adorned with taxidermied animals, mounted heads, antlers, tusks, horns, and more. A tarp covers a large section of one wall, while the open spaces feature the mounted heads of both animals and lusii. A fire crackles nearby. Two chairs sit beside one another, separated by a chessboard. A massive rifle hangs over the fireplace. Eridan walks Dave over to one of the mounted heads on the wall. It’s a big cat, a beast with a brilliant white coat and two mouths.

“This here’s a mighty purrbeast. The lexicon of the lower-bloods is often too vile for my tongue, but I find it fitting for these unique creatures,” Eridan explains. “Tigers and purrbeasts. Crabs and clawbeasts. Rams and hornbeasts. Makes naming and classifying easier.”

Dave nods, looking around the rest of the room. There’s the usual prized possessions—head of a wildebeest, horn of a rhinoceros, bearskin rug—and more exotic, unique trophies as well—the scaly wings of a dragon, massive crab claws, and two conjoined, horned heads, each with only one eye.

“Bicyclops,” Eridan explains from behind Dave. “I prefer ‘biclops’ as a name, but the correct terminology is bicyclops.”

“Got a nice collection here,” Dave replies.

“Thank you.”

“So, what’s underneath the tarp?”

Eridan chuckles softly, shaking his head.

“It’s a mess, really. I’m trying to set up a ‘themed’ section, but it’s coming along rather slowly. Perhaps you’ll be able to help me with it, but…” Eridan glances over at the grandfather clock in the room. “But we should be heading to bed, it seems. You need rest.”

Eridan leads Dave out of the trophy room and up a flight of stairs. They walk down a hallway, and Eridan opens a door for Dave. Dave enters, finding himself standing in a rather cozy bedroom. There are windows, but there are iron bars placed in front of the glass.

“Had ‘em installed when one delirious sailor jumped out. Poor soul,” Eridan explained, apparently noticing Dave’s apprehension to the odd fixture. “Sorry to end the night on such a sad note. Good night.”

Dave doesn’t get much of a say, as Eridan is already closing the door. Dave can hear a lock click in place. Eridan locked him in. He can’t necessarily blame the guy, there’s probably plenty of distrust between Eridan and the various people who wash up on his island. Instead, Dave decides to ignore the problems over which he lacks control. He lays down in the bed, sets his shades on the nightstand, closes his eyes, and drifts off to sleep.

**Author's Note:**

> check me out on twitter at @fishbowlings!


End file.
